Buffet the crossed wings of the face-barred falcon,
Closed tight over his crown,
Tight against the cruel wind,
The keening world.
Eyes that have seen too far, too fierce, too keen;
Beheld white fire masquerading as inviolate truth
Complete,
Feeding from its own flame,
Reflection
Burned, burned, burned,
Are hooded and blind.
No prophecies are scried, no magic glanced;
They are not filled with the white sharp edge of the sun's light
That comes searing in and binds the lidless eye
And coils the fire-mind.
The falcon's head lifts, its eyes craving roseate dawn,
Not the black-iced pain of night.
A scream is cast into the maelstrom and torn away
Like a tongue that cannot talk of truce.
Would that a fleet curved wing
And the pained yearning of a fierce heart
Would soon carry a pilgrim, steeped
In the sadness and the madness,
Back to the great Axis of Life.
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